


I Don't Want To Lose You

by Snowyesque



Category: Hello Charlotte (Video Game), Hello Charlotte (Video Games)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, but it's okay!!! it's all okay here i won't let vincent get hurt, don't read this if you haven't played HC3 yet, if you're reading this you already know what's up, or do. who am i to tell you what to do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 12:11:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16681396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowyesque/pseuds/Snowyesque
Summary: Charles can’t take his hand because he fears the feeling of letting go.





	I Don't Want To Lose You

**Author's Note:**

> it's been 2 years since i last wrote a fic but charles and vincent have hurt me
> 
> (title is from I Don't Want To Lose You by Luca Fogale)

Vincent is injured, and Charles can’t touch him.

He is his god, his everything—pretty words by devout believers might insist that one cannot look directly upon the face of God, but Charles will drink in every inch of his features. His gray hair, shining silver in the late afternoon sun, tied up in a narrow ponytail that spills over his shoulder like a river of moonlight. His eyes that have seen worlds, even whole universes created and destroyed with a flick of his pen. Skin marred by bruises, scratches, and scrapes that fade and reappear like clockwork, the cause never explicitly stated but all too clear nonetheless. Charles takes all of it in like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to try. Maybe it is.

But Charles can’t touch him.

It would be easy to blame his neurotic views on cleanliness, and it wouldn’t be entirely wrong, either. There is nothing clean about bodily injuries, and Vincent—a pit forms in his stomach at the thought—is covered in them. Part of him desperately tries to rationalize away his apprehension, that it isn’t just _anyone’s_ dried blood, just _anyone’s_ bandaged flesh—but while Vincent has the mind of a god, his body is hopelessly human. Fragile.

Charles can’t take his hand because he fears the feeling of letting go.

He’s seen it, in nightmares too convincing for him to write off as mere fantasy. Nightmares of a different first meeting, one with fake pleasantries, fake smiles, fake laughter, and very real fear. Charles is afraid, Vincent is afraid, but neither of them are willing to admit it, the tension in the air too fragile, as if one wrong word would shatter whatever _this_ is. Their chosen spot, the rooftop of a tall building, is empty except for the two of them. Quiet—under different circumstances, one might even call it peaceful. From the dizzying height, the world below them looks impossibly small and insignificant. Standing on the edge, Charles feels as if a strong breeze could send them both falling to the pavement. It’s nauseating.

He wants to beg him to change his mind, convince him that there are other options, that whatever it is, it will get better, but who is he to offer up words that even he himself doesn’t believe? He doesn’t even know what—or who—it is that Vincent is running from. No questions asked, no answers given. Conversations kept civil, careful thought put into each word. The advantage of online conversation. It doesn’t feel much like an advantage now, though, as he glances at Vincent’s battered face from the corner of his eye. Charles couldn’t have changed this. He is painfully aware of that truth, and yet every part of him is screaming that he _wants to help_. He wants to take him far away from here. He would run away with him if only he said the word. He would do anything for him, for this boy who he met only minutes earlier, for this boy who can create worlds, for this boy who became his everything.

He wants to do so much, but all he can do is remove one of his gloves and take Vincent’s hand in his. Charles’ hand is repulsive, a mess of bandages and self-inflicted scars. It’s a crime, really, that he should dare to touch the pristine hand of God, but Vincent doesn’t notice. He just tightens his grip, accepting Charles’ weak attempt at comfort. Charles does the same. He could stay forever like this, their fingers intertwined. He sees Vincent blinking, feels his heart beating erratically. Vincent is shaking. Charles opens his mouth to say something, anything. The words die in his throat. He feels Vincent’s weight shift forward.

_And Vincent_

_lets_

_go._

Charles screams himself awake.

He has this nightmare more often than he cares to admit, to the point where it feels more like a memory than a dream. The images don’t fade like other dreams, instead lingering like a movie incessantly playing and replaying before his eyes. They get more vivid every time he sees—

“Is there something on my face?” Vincent asks, breaking Charles out of his thoughts. “You’ve been staring at me for a while now.”

“What? Oh. Uh,” Charles stammers out. “No, sorry. I just zoned out. Haven’t been sleeping well.”

Of course, he didn’t miss the bruise on his cheek or the bandage on his forehead, but Vincent doesn’t want his pity, so he doesn’t mention it. He never does. It’s the elephant in the room, and it feels like a wall between the two of them, one that Vincent won’t acknowledge and Charles won’t ask about. He wishes he had the courage to bring it up, but what would he do once he did? He could hardly just take him from one broken home to another. What they have right now is easy, comfortable, if stifling at times. If this is how Vincent wants it to stay, the distance he wants to maintain, then Charles can accept that. For now.

“Is that so? Would you like me to read you a bedtime story?” Vincent asks, a small, teasing smile on his face.

Charles snorts derisively. “You don’t seem like the bedtime story type.”

“Mm. I don’t have much experience with them, I suppose.” Vincent’s expression shifts slightly, almost imperceptibly. He looks wistful.

_Shit_. He knows that expression. Even though he can’t possibly predict what might set off something inside Vincent's mind, Charles still feels guilty, always walking across a minefield of seemingly harmless words with unintended consequences. The difference between his mother and Vincent is that while she reacts explosively, he retreats into himself. In a moment, Vincent will go back to normal. He will laugh it off, acting as though he never let down his defenses. Charles doesn’t give him time to conceal his expression or take back his words. He leans forward and takes Vincent’s hand, carefully, hesitantly. The only form of comfort he knows.

“Charles?” Vincent asks, visibly confused.

_“I want you to live,”_ he doesn’t say.

“You should try writing one. Knowing you, it would be an amazing story,” he says instead.

There is no building. There is no rooftop. There is only silence as the two of them sit on the floor of Charles’ bedroom, their fingers intertwined.

Vincent doesn’t let go.

**Author's Note:**

> this was self-indulgent and while i want to write more i know i won't
> 
> i'm snowyesque on tumblr and twitter too! come cry about vincent with me


End file.
